In 1974, upon Dr Armendáriz’s resignation (apparently after threats made by a purported parapolice group relating to his ruling on the case of some so-called guerrillas gunned down by the police; the absence of any such groups in the area around that date leads us to the conjecture that the calls were made by Dr Alexander himself, or at least at his instigation) he takes over as police doctor; years later he does likewise with the judiciary (a marriage of convenience that does little to favour the transparency of trials). Dr Alexander’s methods in his dual role are characterised by his unusual consistency — in twenty-two years not one of his reports has ever even partially questioned the official version of events. It goes without saying that Dr Alexander has always tailored his reports to the needs of the police or the judicial authorities (a procedure with a whiff of scandal about it during Superintendent Major Ariel Greco’s infamous leadership—1977–1983—who directly dictated to Dr Alexander the contents of autopsies that were never even performed), or to the litigant favoured by them, eg the trial over the death of two farm workers in a collapsed silo on the La Primera Argentina Estancia in the vicinity of Elordi — his ‘providential’ discovery of traces of alcohol in their blood deprived the families of due compensation.
Kidnapping and subsequent death and disappearance of Darío Z Ezcurra — On 25th February 1977, in circumstances known to all — and I mean all — in this town of Malihuel, the abduction of the young journalist and respected inhabitant took place (see Files Nos 271 & 272, Ezcurra, Darío Z; and Ezcurra, Delia Alvarado de). From the start of the ‘general inquiry’ by chief of police Armando J Neri, Dr Alexander proved to be one of the most enthusiastic …
Illegal abortions — During the 1980s he practised illegal abortions on the following young ladies (and ladies) of Malihueclass="underline" 1) Valle, Ana Obregón; a maid in the household and commercial establishment of the Sacamata family, any male members of said family being held responsible; operation paid for with money from said family, later deducted monthly from wages of said maid (see Sacamata, Alfredo senior and Sacamata, Alfredo junior; Files Nos 2017 & 2018 respectively; and Valle, Ana Obregón, File № 2126); 2) Anunciata, Herminia; high-school student …
Its being midnight 27th April … glaucoma … refusing to tend Gervasio Lafalla, temporary farmhand (see File No …) … clearly unnecessary Caesarean section … septicaemia … reuse of disposable material … refusal to tend a patient contaminated with the virus … premature birth … chronic medicamentosa … difference in the calibre of the bullet … alleged indecent assault case dismissed … amphetamines … diuretics … antidepressants …
I snap the folder shut when I hear him coming back.
“THAT ONE, the one in the window,” Nene Larrieu had pointed out on one of my first evenings. “That’s where they’d play their famous games of chess. Used to spend the time talking actually, and when they remembered, one of them would move a piece now and again.”
“That’s what I mean,” Batata Sacamata had rudely interrupted. “I don’t know what the professor’s playing at, ’cause Neri and him they was always thick as thieves.”
“Sometimes when they put the board away they hadn’t moved a piece”—ignoring him, the waiter of Los Tocayos had gone on. “Someone once suggested they should be in the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s slowest players.”
“That’d’ve been you,” Iturraspe had cheerfully peached on him.
“The games could last for weeks. Tuesdays and Fridays, they’d get together. Religiously. Unless the Superintendent couldn’t make it. That Friday — the dog’s day as they call it — the professor waited in vain, with the board open and the pieces the way they’d left them at their last meeting. He said something to me but I can’t remember what. I wasn’t paying much attention ’cause it was only a few minutes since Ezcurrita’d left — they almost ran into each other. He confided to me that in three moves, four at most, he’d have the Superintendent in checkmate. But they never got to finish the game.”
“He could never forgive himself for that friendship,” Iturraspe’d said.
“I’M TIRED OF IT,” the professor says to me when I look up. “I don’t want to go on. It’s extraordinary what something like this can take out of you. I’d rather you have it and keep no copy myself, I don’t want to be tempted. You’ll be taking a weight off me if you take it with you, and at the same time you’ll make me feel that all that effort was worth something. There’s only one file that I’m afraid you’ll search for in vain — your grandfather’s. I hope you’ll understand.”
I thanked him for both gestures — the gift and the sleight of hand — with a shallow nod. Right then I planned to throw the monstrous mausoleum of moral misery out of the coach window, wrapped in the little jacket Auntie Chesi had knitted for my son with her dead husband’s wool. But my determination wilted and I ended up keeping it. I told myself it might be of use in the event of legal problems, that I’d keep it in the trunk room at home, in a double-seal bag (you only had to glance at the cover to sink into a profound depression for the rest of your day) and would give it to my lawyer as a keepsake; but to be honest, in the end it was a kind of reverence that stopped me getting rid of it. The extraordinary folder documented not only the dark side of the multiple existences batting about without rhyme or reason in this patch of the gringo pampas that’s so like any other it reminds you of the samples carried by travelling fabric salesmen; but also something more precious — the sterile sacrifice of a life that, rather than moving somewhere, had chosen to bury itself in this place in order to hate it the more. Professor Gagliardi’s soul had given itself to the most insidious and perhaps illicit of the passions known to man — cringing embarrassment at others (which is not to say he neglected his own; I’d be lying by omission if I forgot to mention File № 827, corresponding to Gagliardi, Benjamín F). This hefty tome, this promiscuous cohabitation of police dossier and small-town gossip, was also the melancholy testament to a life devoted to moral mortification.